The Case of the Missing Brain
by Miaka Kennyuuki
Summary: Four months after TGG, while working a highly unusual case, Sherlock goes missing. It's up to quiet, unassuming John H. Watson to find him.


The Case of the Missing Brain  
>by Miaka Kennyuuki<p>

Summary: Four months after TGG, while working a highly unusual case, Sherlock goes missing. It's up to quiet, unassuming John H. Watson to find him.

A/N: For those of you who are huge Sherlock fans (i.e; everyone), don't worry, there are still lots of Sherlock.

A/N2: This is unbetaed.

Disclaimer: Moffat, you can keep your BBC Sherlock 2010! Mostly because I didn't think of it first.

**One**

Doctor John H. Watson glanced around the cluttered flat, taking in the bubbling chemistry set on the dining table visible through the open kitchen door, the books haphazardly stacked around the two armchairs, sofa and telly, spilling over into even larger piles on the floor, and the scattered petri dishes of unidentifiable substances visible on ever available surface. The wallpaper on one wall was spray painted and spattered with bullet spray, victim to another one of his flatmate's experiments or moods. A narrow pair of boots stood near the door, and a light scarf lay across the arm of a chair, beside a thick trench coat that barely concealed the end of a glittering cellphone peeking out from under it.

To a casual observer all that John saw would seem strange, but not to John. All that was spread out before him was commonplace in the flat of the supergenius consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, shared with the painfully ordinary ex-Afghani war veteran Dr. John Watson. What really stood out, what really threw poor John off, was the complete lack of said detective sprawled over a chair, or crouched on the floor flipping through a book, or even standing over some boiling concoction in the kitchen. Usually Sherlock came prancing out into the main area the minute John arrived home, babbling happily about whatever strange experiment he had been conducting that day. But Sherlock Holmes was no where to be found.

"Sherlock?" John inched further into the room, leaning forward to glance into the open door of his flatmate's rarely utilised room. Seeing no sign of the young virtuoso, he stepped fully into the apartment. And froze.

Something cold, hard and familiar was pressed into his lower back. A shockingly familiar voice flowed coldly into John's petrified ears.

"Hello, Mr. Watson. I take it you too cannot locate the delightful Mr. Holmes?"

John swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly, sweat dripping down his chin. He whispered one word.

"Moriarty."

_Three weeks earlier..._

"John! John, where are you? I need you to put on this edible body paint, make gorilla noises, and let me shoot you with a rubber arrow. It's for an experiment!" Sherlock Holmes called out into the flat, bounding through the open door in a rush of barely contained energy. "I think it will solidify my theory on kinetic force sufficiently enough to post on my website."

A moment later a be-sweatered, book-wielding mass of irritation exited from the kitchen into the main room, it's face set in slight disbelief. John Watson was now well aware his flatmate was home.

"How does edible body paint and gorilla noises have anything to do with kinetic force, Sherlock?" the veteran demanded, tossing his half-read book onto the cluttered coffee table. Reaching up, he rubbed the bridge of his nose with one finger.

"You wouldn't understand," Sherlock stated dismissively, traipsing fully inside and discarding his gloves atop the book. "Now hop to it. If I don't do this experiment between noon and 2:15pm while the tide is low the data will be useless."

"Now that doesn't even make sense!" John protested, tugging the hem of his checkered sweater down as he plopped down into his favoured armchair.

"Genius. Noun. A person endowed with transcendent mental superiority. Namely, me. Someone of your mental faculties could never deign to tell me what does or does not make sense, thank you," Sherlock drawled disdainfully, sprawling into his own armchair, coat and scarf still wrapped tightly around him. "Put some tea on and set out some biscuits first, please. I'm feeling rather peckish."

John's scowl could go down in history for it's severity. "Firstly, I'm not your housekeeper. And secondly, did you just call me an idiot?"

"If you must ask..." Sherlock's smirk was answer enough. John fought the smile Sherlock always managed to raise in him. He could never stay mad at his flatmate. That gorgeous smirk distracted him too much. _Gorgeous? Now where did that come from..._

Sherlock's smirk fell at the sight of John's puzzled frown. "All right, Watson? It moderately pains me to admit that for once I have no clue as to the reason of your sudden puzzlement. Care to enlighten me?"

Jolted from his bemused thoughts by the consulting detective's deep voice, John shook his head. "No, that's quite alright, Sherlock. Just a strange turn of thought. Passed quite quickly."

Eyebrow raised in a classic display of skepticism, Sherlock stared intensely at the slight confusion that had yet to leave John's face. John locked eyes with his flatmate, but the detective continued to stare.

"Sherlock..." John murmured, continuing to gaze into his flatmate's unusually pale gray eyes.

"Yes, Watson?" Sherlock responded, stare unhindered by something so human as blinking.

"You do realize that there is a socially acceptable length of time one is allowed to stare at someone before they should politely turn away?" John continued.

"I am aware of some such notion, yes," Sherlock murmured, eyes widening comically in an attempt to remain open. As usual, John broke first, a snort escaping before his hand flew up in an attempt to stifle his less than manly giggles. Sherlock soon followed with a chuckle of his own, until the flatmates were laughing together.

As their laughter slowly tapered off, Sherlock pulled out his cellphone and began furiously texting. John knew better than to ask, who, what, or any truly revealing question. Sherlock would tell him when he was ready. Shrugging, John stood. "Tea?"

"And biscuits, thank you, Watson, that's a good man," Sherlock muttered distractedly, his fingers somehow speeding up.

John sighed, stood, and moved into the kitchen so he could do the one vital and invaluable thing he could for the high-functioning sociopath he called 'flatmate'. He made tea.

"Come along, Watson, chop chop. You know how these bobbies get when they have to wait around too long. More confused than usual, I dearsay," Sherlock called behind him, almost skipping into the building that contained the crime scene they had come to view.

"Bobbies?" John asked, hurrying to catch up to the overly excitable genius. "Slang, Sherlock? Where did you learn that?" The pair moved up two flights of stairs, following the flow of forensics personnel coming down from the scene.

"Jeremy Kyle[1]," the raven haired sleuth muttered, long strides quickly bringing him down the hallway to the room they required. Police tape plastered the walls, a uniformed officer standing guard at the door. The real indication that they were in the right place was the presence of Medical Examiner Anderson, Sally Donovan and the ever desperate Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. John had to stifle the amusement caused by Sherlock's answer as they came to a stop in front of the usual crew Lestrade drummed up.

"Hullo Anderson, Donovan, Detective Inspector," John said politely, reaching out to shake everyone's hands in greeting. Only Lestrade took him up on the offer. It most likely had more to do with the fact that he and John were regular pub buddies, than it had to do with general politeness. Anderson and Donovan were always grumpy in some way, usually when they weren't getting their end away - with each other, or alone - so John paid them no mind.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," DI Lestrade greeted, not even bothering to present a hand to Sherlock. He had learned long ago that Sherlock Holmes rarely observed, or even understood social norms. "So..."

"Yes, and so, and so, and so. Bored. Tell me something magical is about to happen, Lestrade, or I am leaving," Sherlock snapped. John sighed. He could already feel the drama rising, and Sherlock certainly loved an audience.

"Jeremy Kyle again?" John asked, attempting to side track what promised to be a truly spectacular snit if Sherlock's brain wasn't engaged soon. Anderson's derisive snort immediately set Sherlock on edge. Sally's smirk didn't bode well either.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Sherlock drawled, his voice glacial. John cringed. _Oh yes, quite a good snit._

"Really, freak? You watch something as common as Jeremy Kyle? Who'd have thought that-"

"Enough, Donovan!" Lestrade snapped, stopping the sergeant mid-sentence. "Mr. Holmes. Sherlock. This case will be especially intriguing to you, I think. Please enter the room and tell me what you think."

One more snitty sniff for good measure, and Sherlock turned, coat flaring dramatically as he glided purposefully into the room. Everyone but John rolled their eyes at Sherlock's need for melodrama.

"John!" came an excited cry from the interior of the room. Adrenaline zinged through John's veins at the promise of more adventure, as he hurried into the room.

What he saw inside froze him in his tracks.

Laid out flat of the ground, in a disturbingly familiar way, in disturbingly familiar clothes, was a woman. Her collar was wet, her finger was tanned dark around the space where she wore a wedding ring, and a cellphone was clutched in her pale hands.

She was dressed all in pink.

"Sherlock..." John continued to stare, unsure of what to do. Sherlock, always a man of action, strode forward, bent down, and picked up the cellphone. It was on, the screen slightly smudged with fingerprints and condensation, presumably from her wet clothing.

Sherlock scrolled to the voice message screen, and tapped twice.

[YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE]

One more tap, and a frighteningly familiar voice streamed tinnily through the speakers of the mobile device.

"Hullo! Sher~lock~! Want to play a game?"

John paled, one name echoing through his head. Jim Moriarty.

Completely opposite to John's sickly visage, Sherlock's eyes seemed to shine, the idea of a challenge exciting him. He turned to his shorter flatmate, a small smile spreading across his typically stoic face.

"The game, my dear Watson, is on."

***TBC

[1] Trashy late night telly show, a mix between Maury and Steve Wilkos, with a little Dr. Phil thrown in for flavor.


End file.
